Sarah's Surrender (23 page)

Sarah glanced at Mr. Morgan. “Yes, I believe we are.”

“Then I'll take her to Zelma and be right back.”

Though Sarah was sure he said that for Mr. Morgan's benefit, knowing he was so conscientious about her well-being warmed her heart. “So, Miss Worley, could you tell me how you came to sign up for the lottery? I know that some women did, but there weren't all that many when compared to the number of men who did.”

“It was simple, really. I'd lived on a ranch near Guthrie with Jack's sister, Lara Coulter, and her husband, Gabe, for eight years. I recently began to feel it was time for a change, so I spent a lot of time in prayer and came to believe that it was God's will for me to register.”

“I see. And did you register at Lawton or El Reno?”

“El Reno.”

“Did you travel there alone?”

Again, she wondered what business that was of his but felt compelled to answer. “Jack escorted me. We took the train to El Reno, stayed several days at a hotel, registered, and then returned home.”

“What do you plan to do with your land? One hundred sixty acres is a lot for one woman to manage, especially now that you have a child.”

“You may have noticed that I have already planted a garden. Next year's will be much larger. More than likely, I will rent out some of the land, but I haven't decided for sure.” Maybe Jack would decide to stay and raise horses. She hadn't minded being alone—at least she tried not to think about it—but things were different now that she had Claire. She wouldn't be as free to come and go with a little one in tow. And how would she get a job? She thought of Mr. Barlow's offer.

Mr. Morgan tapped his pad with his pencil, staring off in the distance. “Could you tell me a little about how you came to live with the Coulters?”

Her heart bucked. Her mind raced. What could she tell him? Certainly not what kind of business her father had been in when she'd lived with him.

“I … um … well, my mother died when I was young. I lived with my father for a short while, but that didn't work out, so I went to live with the Coulters. And it's the best thing that could have happened to me.” He didn't need to know that she'd run away from her father, and she certainly didn't want that put into the paper.

After a bit of encouragement from Mr. Morgan, she agreed to pose for a photograph. She stood quietly while the camera captured her image. A sudden thought made her heart jolt, and she worked hard to maintain her neutral expression. Her father lived outside of Oklahoma City. What if Mr. Morgan tracked him down and found out he used to own a bordello?

Carson retied the gauze on Mr. Gibbons's burnt forearm. “That should hold you for a few more days. Remember, no cooking, and don't get the bandage wet.”

The man nodded as he slid off the exam table. “Kind of hard for a cook not to work over a stove.”

Carson wadded up the old bandage and dropped it in his waste bucket. “You can do some of the preparation if your arm doesn't hurt too much, but I'd prefer that you rest it so that it will heal. If you twist and turn it, breaking open the scabs, it will only take longer to heal over.”

“I been takin' it easy, Doc. My daughter arrived from Tulsa and is helping Mrs. Gibbons in the café. I been catchin' up on my readin' and nappin'.” He chuckled. He pulled a folded paper from the rear pocket of his trousers. “Nellie brought me this copy of the
Daily Oklahoman.
Have ya read it?”

Carson dried his hands on a clean towel. “Can't say as I have.”

Mr. Gibbons held it out. “Take it. I've done read through it twice. I think I'll head over to one of the stores and see if they got some new books. I need me some new reading material.”

He took the paper and nodded. “Thank you. Come back in three days unless you have problems.”

“Will do.” Mr. Gibbons waved with his good arm and headed out the open door. Suddenly he paused and turned back. “Oh hey, there's a story on page 4 about a woman from here that won a claim. You might like readin' that.”

Carson set the newspaper on his desk and finished cleaning his examination area. He swept off the back porch then closed and locked the door. His stomach gurgled as he walked down the hall to the front of the office, reminding him that he should close up shop and find something to eat. At least he had something new to read.

He looked around, making sure everything was put away and the medical cabinets were locked, and then he snatched the paper off the desk and locked the office door. He headed over to the Gibbons Café. He liked both Frank and his wife Evelyn, but he'd yet to meet their daughter. As he crossed the street, he slowed and nodded to the Wheaten family. “How's little Abe's ankle?”

Mr. Wheaten shifted the four-year-old to his other arm. “Good. I'm havin' a right hard time keepin' him off of it.”

“It's been—what—four days?”

Abigail Wheaten nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“If it doesn't seem to hurt him, go ahead and let him walk, but no running or jumping until next week, all right?” He directed his question to Abe.

The boy smiled. “I can walk?”

“Yes, but no running.”

“Or jumpin'. I heard.” He wiggled and pushed against his father's chest. “Put me down, Pa.”

“Wait until we get out of the middle of the road. Good to see you again, Dr. Worth.”

“You, too.” He continued the several blocks to the café, nodding or smiling whenever he encountered someone he'd met. It dawned on him that he was beginning to feel comfortable in this ever-changing town. He studied the landscape filled with tents, new buildings in various stages of creation, horses, wagons, and hundreds of people. Just a few weeks ago, all these people were somewhere else, but now they'd come together to create a new community—and he felt a part of it.

This place was home now. He still missed his father, but he had the satisfaction of knowing his father would be proud of what he'd accomplished and that he had his own medical practice. He might be disappointed that it wasn't in Indian Territory, but Carson couldn't go back there.

He turned into the café, sat down at an empty table, and stared out the window. His father had helped a woman with a difficult birth, but both she and the baby died. If the cord hadn't been wrapped around the baby's neck, perhaps Carson's father would still be alive. But he wasn't, because the distraught husband had killed him.

A woman he suspected was several years younger than him stopped beside the table. “What can I get for you, sir?”

He glanced at the menu written on a slate in chalk. “I'll have the stewed chicken and noodles and coffee.”

She glanced at him with pretty hazel eyes. Her auburn hair was wrapped in a bun, with curly wisps framing her face. She looked more like her mother than Frank. “Would you like pie with that? All we have left is pecan.”

“Pecan is fine.”

He watched her bustle past the curtain separating the kitchen from the café and leaned back in his chair. He recognized the people at two of the five tables that were filled. Each day he met someone new. Maybe one day he'd make friends with someone his age who wasn't married and they could share a meal now and then. He got tired of eating alone.

Sighing, he opened the newspaper and scanned the front page. Most of the information referred to things happening in Oklahoma City—the murder of a cobbler, a fire that burned down half a block of businesses, an article about an opera singer coming to town, and two advertisements for baking powder and one for horse liniment. He flipped the pages until his gaze landed on the article near the bottom of page 4 that Frank had told him about. He started reading about a woman named Sarah Worley and how she was one of the few women to win a claim in the lottery. Then it told about how Miss Worley had found a young girl and taken her in. Her brother and the men helping to build her house had searched for the child's mother and found her dead. There was nothing to indicate the child's name or to whom she belonged. Miss Worley told the reporter she intended to keep the toddler girl she named Claire.

Carson pursed his lips as he flipped the page. Children weren't like stray animals. Not everyone had the patience to raise a child. He thought of the woman who'd brought in the dirty little girl last week—and then he was looking at her face on page 5. He blinked. The skin on his face tightened. Miss Worley was the woman with the dirty girl?

The waitress set down a plate of steaming chicken and noodles with peas and carrots in it. He realized at some point she'd brought his coffee and a basket of biscuits, too. “Um … thank you.”

He reread the article. The man that had been with Miss Worley must have been her brother, but they didn't look a thing alike, other than they both had dark hair. Their last names weren't the same, either, but that was easy to explain if Mr. Jensen's father had died and his mother remarried.

Carson sat back, not really feeling hungry. He'd been rather rude to the couple, but in his own defense, he thought they'd been the girl's parents. Why hadn't they told him that they'd just found her? No wonder the child had so many insect bites. How many days had she wandered around on her own? It was a miracle that she was still alive and doing as well as she was.

He nibbled at a piece of chicken. Had he been less than fair because Miss Worley looked part Indian?

And who could fault him for thinking the dark-skinned child was hers? What were the odds of her finding a half-breed child? He supposed the girl could have been of some other ethnicity like Gypsy or Italian, but she had the look of an Indian child, except for her blue eyes.

He stirred the noodles then took another bite. The food tasted delicious, but he felt bad for the assumptions he'd made and the way he'd treated Miss Worley and her brother. A doctor was supposed to remain impartial. He'd sorely misjudged them and owed them an apology.

Sarah shook the diaper she'd just rinsed out and hung it on the line. Sweat dampened her bodice and back, making her clothes stick to her. “I think someone should designate summer as no-laundry season.”

“My men would get rather ripe if that was the case.” Zelma chuckled as she stirred the remaining diapers in the washtub. She grabbed a knife and the bar of soap from a basket of supplies and scraped some more shavings into the steaming water. “That's a good idea, except that little gal of yours would run clear out of diapers and clothes. You should let her run around diaperless in a gown like my boys did when they were young. It's easier to clean up the mess than washing diapers so often.”

Sarah knew that was what women in the past did, but she found the idea repulsive and didn't want her new wooden floors soiled.

“ ‘Course, if we didn't wash all month, my men wouldn't be able to change clothes every week like they do now. Although, I reckon they could all jump in the river and wash themselves and their clothes at the same time.” She chuckled. “Sure would save me lots of work.”

“I wouldn't mind a soak in the river.” She fished another diaper out of the rinse pot, twisted it, and hung it on the line Jack had strung between two trees. She covered her eyes and looked back toward the house. “You think I should check on Claire?”

“Stop your fussin' and let's get done. Jack said he'd let you know if ‘n she woke up. Besides, we're nearly done.”

“Right about now, I'm wishing I had another two dozen diapers. It would mean washing a lot less often.”

“That's true.” Zelma lifted a diaper from the soapy water and dropped it into the rinse pot. “But just think how long it would take to wash ‘em all.”

“That's a good point.”

“If ‘n you don't wanna wash diapers, you'll hafta set out a chamber pot that little gal can use. Johnny's the only one of mine that wore diapers, and after he wet ‘em, I just hung ‘em up and let them dry out several times before I washed them.”

Sarah cringed at that thought. And with this heat, the smell … she shuddered. Next time she went to town she'd buy a small chamber pot.